Page:Poems by Cushag.djvu/31

29 How shall they bear to ruin that pretty baby play! How shall they dare to tell her what they must so quickly say! A trembling hand on the gate: one look in her startled face— No need for spoken words! God help her of His grace!

Like a lapwing over the meadow she has flown to her wounded mate; One broken sob; then steady! the tears can be made to wait. What recks she how it happened, or where the fault may lie, She only knows that the sunshine is all gone out of her sky.